


louder and louder

by smolpot8o



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood spattered boys, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Chamomile Rubbing, Cuddling, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Geralt may have witcher senses but he has no Sense, Getting Together, Hearing heartbeats, It has come to my attention that Geralt is working through trauma, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kidnapping, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Oblivious Pining, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scenting, Tavern Brawl, Tsundere Geralt, baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolpot8o/pseuds/smolpot8o
Summary: Geralt tries to puzzle out why Jaskier keeps following him into danger after danger... completely missing the obvious. There's too great a gulf between what his witcher senses pick up, and what his damaged heart is willing to accept.//"The bard’s heart always beats faster whenever the witcher draws near. That isn't unusual. So do the hearts of most humans he encounters. Not only do they blanch and recoil at the sight of his white hair and amber eyes, but they begin to sweat, the stench of their fear a sour tang at the back of his throat.But the bard never seems to reek of fear."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Mention of Geralt/Yennefer
Comments: 335
Kudos: 3140
Collections: Best Geralt, Finished Fics I Love





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [post](https://goldandlights.tumblr.com/post/190213189125/theres-a-lot-of-unrealised-potential-in-geraskier).
> 
> Based on the show and what little I've seen of the third game from over my bf's shoulder.
> 
> Title taken from "Drumming Song" by Florence of the Machine, because of course it is.

The bard’s heart always beats faster whenever the witcher draws near. That isn't unusual. So do the hearts of most humans he encounters. Not only do they blanch and recoil at the sight of his white hair and amber eyes, but they begin to sweat, the stench of their fear a sour tang at the back of his throat.

But the bard never seems to reek of fear. At least, not until there are devils or vengeful elves afoot. Perhaps it’s the bard’s flowery perfume, doing its job of masking how many days it’s been since they’ve had enough water to wash their travels off their backs. Then again, it’s not actually masking as well as the bard probably hopes. Nothing can fool a witcher’s nose.

Perhaps the bard follows him around because, deep down, mostly once it's over, he rather enjoys being scared.

“Geralt, watch out!”

Geralt growls, using Aard to push back the drowner at his front and pivoting to slice the one lunging toward his back.

“Yes!” cries the bard, as the drowner’s head rolls, blood spraying. He thinks he’s being helpful. As if the witcher didn’t hear the squelch of another set of feet crawling from the lake, feel the vibration on the ground of three bodies moving around him. Well, four, if you counted the bard hiding behind the husk of a rotted tree trunk, watching the show.

“Take that!”

Then again, if the bard doesn’t shut up, his witcher senses might just miss a small and ultimately fatal detail. Even if he's only fighting drowners, hardly worth a ballad, he could still meet a stupid, avoidable end. Talked to death.

Geralt roars as he kicks at the second drowner, sending it sailing into the third one. Only a couple more slices, and a punch or two, working out his frustrations. Then, one last stab, and now, he’ll have enough coin for a room and a bath.

“That was _magnificent_!”

Even surrounded by the swampy stench of drowner blood, the scent of dandelions still breaks through, like a hint of sunlight after the dark of a storm.

Jaskier beams at him, his heartbeat brisk. “The way you sail through the air, like－like a deadly dancer! Such grace, employed for gruesome means, but nevertheless, rather beaut－”

His voice is cut off by a scream. Just as the witcher had feared. He’s been distracted by the blasted talking.

But before the second, not-so-dead drowner can lunge past his shoulder and toward the bard, Geralt swings, hard. It cleaves the creature nearly in half. The bard keeps screaming, but only because he’s been hit full blast by the blood.

Jaskier splutters, alternating between swearing and spitting. “Fucking hell! That’s foul! Ugh, is it poison? Am I going to die? Or turn into one of them?”

Geralt lets the corners of his mouth twitch. That’s what the bard gets for never shutting his mouth.

“ _Geralt!_ ” screams Jaskier, as if he’d only killed the drowner for the purpose of soaking the other man's pale skin and silk clothing in sticky black blood.

“You’re welcome,” says Geralt.

Jaskier gives one last huff, but then goes quiet, for a moment, as if repaying the life debt with something the witcher actually wants: blessed silence.

But he can’t keep it up for long. “I owe you my life,” he says, quietly. "Again." Then he puts a hand on his hip, pointing with the other. “But _you_ owe me a new _outfit_!”

“That’s not going to happen," says Geralt. "I didn't ask you to put your hide－and your clothes－at risk."

At that, the bard draws the kind of deep breath that can only proceed a tirade. He dives into it, forefinger still held aloft, going on about the usual－that before the bard had come along and given a polish to his rusty reputation, the witcher's work had gone entirely unappreciated by the other ungrateful humans, and now, the witcher had gone and returned the lack of favor by denying due gratitude to the bard, which wasn't fair, blah, blah－all while still drenched in black gore, his blue eyes bright against the dark blood. It looks hilarious. And a little sad. But mostly hilarious.

The witcher busies himself gathering ingredients from the bodies of the drowners, enough proof to trade for the promised coin, and a little more to try and rustle up some extra earnings at the next apothecary he can find.

"Geralt, are you even listening?"

He'd listened to this rant the first time, mostly, even if he'd only responded with "Hmm". But not this round. The bard can protest all he wants that he follows him for the witcher’s own sake. But Geralt will never believe him. Whatever his reasons, they can only be for his own gain. Inspiration, secondhand fame, firsthand thrills.

Nobody can possibly enjoy the witcher's company. And nobody should.

That's why the witcher is not particularly nice. Sometimes, not being nice is the only way to be kind. And it would be kind to scare the bard the hell away. If monsters won't do the trick, maybe his manners, or lack thereof, will.

"Geralt!"

Jaskier must truly lack any self-preservation instinct whatsoever, because he reaches out and attempts to give his shoulder a chiding shove.

Geralt shoves him back, straight into depths of the lake.

The bard's indignant scream hurts his ears. But it brings another smile to his lips. He even allows himself a chuckle.

Jaskier's heart thunders in surprise. But if he’s truly afraid, any smell is drowned in the water.

"Very funny," says Jaskier. "The first time I hear you laugh, and it's not even anything clever!"

Geralt wades in after him, giving the bard the opportunity to splash him in revenge. He even growls a little, like it bothers him, as if he doesn't need a good soak himself to wash off the blood.

Jaskier gives a little laugh, vengeance sated. His heartbeat is still skipping a little. He beams, cheeks bright with a near afterglow, as if he's just been taken into bed, rather than out to hunt monsters in the dangerous wild, getting sweaty and bloodied and disgusting.

Maybe, after this adventure, he will have had his fill of excitement. He might tire of all the boredom that comes with it, long days on the road, eating bland game, sleeping on the hard ground. Add ruining his precious clothes on top of that, and maybe next time their paths cross, the bard will be content to listen to the latest tale in the safety of a tavern, rather than insisting on tagging along to take it in firsthand.

Or they won't meet again. Maybe, with a renewed appreciation for urban living, the bard will find enough renown to settle into a royal appointment somewhere, and never again go without the food, company, and wine he pines after while trailing the witcher through the wild.

And Geralt will be alone again.

"You got lucky this time, bard," says Geralt. "But next time, if I'm too slow, or there's too many－"

Jaskier splashes him again. "You won't be too slow," he says. "There will never be too many. You're the glorious White Wolf!" His next words rise into song notes. "You'll always－"

Geralt pushes his head under water. Very briefly, just enough to make the bard sputter as he comes back up, heart hammering in his chest.

Jaskier doesn't look as mad as he'd thought he would, panting up at him, held by his wet hair.

He really does like being a little scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe these two have me writing fic for the first time since I was 12 and writing Lord of the Rings self insert fic. Let me know what you think!
> 
> I also succumbed to making a Witcher [sideblog](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/) where I might post snippets later.
> 
> Thanks for reading! No flames please! (Kidding... kind of.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments! I am Too Shy to reply to each of them individually, but they all made my day, and drove me back to the keyboard for more. I hope you enjoy!

The bard still hasn’t gotten the hint. Neither scared off, nor bored of his company. Six months, fifteen jobs, and three songs later, and a familiar heartbeat spikes at the sight of him as he approaches the tavern bar.

“Geralt!”

It’s almost enough to make the witcher believe in destiny. A destiny that despises him. Either that, or the bard’s been following him. Not tracking him, exactly, but maybe paying attention to the local gossip of each town as he passes through, lingering longer than usual if he hears there are monsters about, or catches whispers of a witcher’s arrival.

But the question remains: why, pray tell, the fuck?

Jaskier still hasn’t gained any self-preservation instincts since their run in with the vampiress. He has the gall to come clap the witcher on the back.

“Let me buy you a drink!”

That’s new.

“Doing well for yourself, bard?”

“Oh, how sweet of you to ask, for a change,” said Jaskier. “Tell me, have you noticed your local reception getting any…warmer?”

Warmer might not be the right word. But, admittedly, it hadn’t been quite so cold as he’d grown accustomed to receiving, the last couple towns. He’d noticed less recoiling the sight of him, caught less stink of fear.

Come to think of it, once he’d walked into this very tavern, the barmaid had cried, “Witcher!” And, thinking back, it hadn’t been so displeased. He didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but playing it again in his head… is that how a warm welcome sounded?

The only only person he ever recieved that from had been Jaskier.

“Hmm,” he says.

The bard rolls his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes. In fact, I’ll take your thanks as well. I know you’re so good about showing gratitude.”

Geralt accepts the ale pressed into his hands. He almost welcomes the distraction, getting to conceal his face for a moment as he swigs deep.

“Please, contain your curiosity,” says Jaskier. “I know you want to hear all about how hard I’ve been working across the continent to bring word to the people of your heroism and hireability.”

“Much harder than me, I’m sure,” says Geralt.

“Oh please, when you really think about it, you work about one, admittedly pretty harrowing, day or two every fortnight, right? But I work nearly every evening! That’s quite a lot of strain on my poor vocal chords, you know. Meanwhile, all your muscles are just…” He waves a hand up and down towards the witcher’s body. “…Like that.”

The witcher is almost not even bothered by the prattle anymore. It’s been nearly a month since anyone’s spoken more than two words to him put together. Perhaps that means he’s got room to listen, before his patience reaches capacity. Not that he missed all this chatter. Especially not when there’s plenty to be had of it around them, in the increasingly loud tavern. It’s long enough after sundown that the crowd is two or three beers deep, the lot of them, or more.

“Is that the Witcher?” whispers a nearby woman, not nearly low enough to escape his ears.

“You mean the White Wolf?”

“That must be him, with the bard.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Your new reputation precedes you.”

With that, he slings his lute down from his shoulder, and sitting up on the table, he begins to strum. Rather than introduce himself, try to drum up some excitement, as the witcher’s seen him do before, he simply rides on the thrill already building in the crowd, as the drinkers take notice of the white hair and golden eyes in their midst.

“ _When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia－_ ”

Geralt sighs. He’ll never breathe a word, but that song’s been stuck on his head for nearly half a year already.

But the crowd isn’t sick of it yet. Some of them are even singing along. And after the bard belts the last note and takes a bow, as the crowd clap and cheer and slap their tables, there are a few cries of “Again!”

The witcher rubs his temples.

“Another time,” says Jaskier.

No sooner than the next song, the one about the drowners, and a customer approaches. By the time that the bard is done and bowing out for the night, after conceding to one last repetition to “Toss a Coin,” there are in fact coins on the table, half up front for a job, and the rest donations, as suggested by the song.

Jaskier slides breathlessly across from him, laughing at the sight of the bounty. “What did I tell you?”

Geralt isn’t sure whether or not he does actually owe the bard a share, even though plenty of patrons tossed a coin to their bard, as well.

“It’s your turn to buy,” says Jaskier.

He takes the half-empty tankard in front of the witcher and downs it himself, too thirsty after his performance to wait for the next round. He even grins as he leans back, slamming down the empty tankard and wiping his mouth, daring the witcher to do something about it.

Geralt is readying a growl, maybe some words, when they’re both taken aback by the heavy slam of a pair of hands shaking the table. The bard jumps, and the witcher doesn’t, not outwardly, but he shouldn’t have been so distracted. He ought to have heard the drunken footfall of the large lout before he came to loom over the both of them, reeking of beer sweat.

Jaskier straightens up, even though he’s flinching from the stench. “I’m sorry, it’s very flattering how much you love the song, but I won’t be playing it a third time, thank you very much.”

“You’d better not,” rumbles the lout. “I’m _sick_ to _death_ of that bloody _racket_.”

“Ah, a critic!” says Jaskier. His posture is stiff and coiled, but his gaze isn't shy. “You certainly strike me as a man of superior taste. I’ll have to take your notes into consideration. Luckily for you, I’m retiring for the night, so why don’t you－”

All this talk doesn’t exactly pacify the lout, who begins to lunge, as if to grab the bard.

That’s when the witcher draws up with a growl. “Whose death?”

“Geralt,” says Jaskier, almost protesting.

Usually, the witcher just walks away from this all-too-familiar talk. It’s been a while, ever since the spread of the song. But he’d be a fool to think that it would ever go away. Even worse, he should’ve realized it wouldn’t always be directed at him.

That’s why he’d stepped up, this time. Jaskier didn’t deserve this.

Geralt succeeds in drawing the man’s ire away from the bard, towards himself.

“It’s you,” says the lout. “They might call you the White Wolf nowadays, thanks to this lying whelp. But I remember when you were called the Butcher of Blaviken.”

The witcher doesn’t flinch at the spit in his face. But he does startle back at the sight of a fist that’s not his own, knocking into the lout’s face. In the drunkard’s state, he nearly falls over, clutching at the table for purchase.

Jaskier, meanwhile, clutches his fist like it stings, but he’s smiling at Geralt.

“What?” he asks. “You think I haven’t had my share of－”

Geralt reaches for him, but not in time to block the lout’s retaliation. He’d been distracted. Again. And now, the bard is taking a tankard to the face.

Unfortunately, the lout apparently has friends, because another two drunks in the crowd try to grab the witcher from behind. Geralt shoves them away with Aard. Then he dives to drag the lout off of Jaskier and bends to pull the bard up to his feet.

But as soon as he’s upright, Jaskier launches himself at the lout again, hitting without any finesse, but a lot of enthusiasm. Geralt doesn’t see any alternative, as soon as he gets a grip on him, but to just pick him up and throw him over his shoulder.

“Geralt, the fuck are you doing?”

No, what the fuck was Jaskier doing?

The crowd parts easily for him, their farewell not so warm as their welcome.

In lieu of getting to throw any more punches, the bard is spitting insults. “You sons of whores! If it weren’t for him, your little bastards would be eaten up by ghouls! I hope you all get gutted by manticores, you ungrateful－”

He’s still muttering and grumbling out the door and long into the nearby alley and winding streets.

Geralt takes the long way to the inn, so they don’t get followed. And so Jaskier doesn’t run straight back to the tavern, looking to finish the fight. Which－why had he even thrown a punch in the first place? The witcher had distracted the lout from laying any hands on the bard himself. And if that had led to any hands on his own person, he could more than handle it.

Jaskier could’ve walked away and let the witcher fend for himself, as he always did. Instead, the witcher smells blood.

“I swear,” said Jaskier. “If I can’t erase your old nickname from the history books, I’m going to do everything I can to at least overwrite it. It’ll just be a footnote. The one I gave you will be the title.”

Perhaps that’s the reason. The bard’s reputation is tied up with the witcher’s. Just a matter of personal pride, then, overriding self preservation.

Once Jaskier finally goes quiet, that’s when Geralt sets him gently down. Jaskier sways a little, probably exhausted after the adrenaline rush, and still a little tipsy. Geralt steadies his shoulder as the younger man lets himself sink to the ground, his back to the wall of the inn.

Even in the dark, the witcher can see that the younger man’s face is bloody. He only hopes it’s not his own.

Jaskier keeps talking anyway, ignoring the coppery taste that must be getting in his mouth. “Why do so many foolish arseholes think they can take a Witcher? You just know they’re compensating for something. Their poor wives must be so unsatisfied.”

Geralt nearly growls at that. The last thing they need is giving their assailants a reason to be vengeful. But then the bard goes on.

“Either that, or that face and stature of yours make them doubt their manhood, and they lash out at you for it.”

What about his face and stature? Doubt their manhood how? He almost asks, about to voice his confusion with a “Hmm?” But it doesn’t matter. He’s got more pressing concerns.

Geralt lifts his hands slowly and carefully. Most people flinch on the rare occasion he needs to touch anyone, usually to check for bleeding, just like now. Jaskier does jump a little when the witcher's rough hands meet the soft skin of his face. His heartbeat drums hard, perhaps remembering past, not so ginger touches, being punched and shoved and dragged by these same hands.

So the witcher tries to make up for it now, being as gentle as possible. He thumbs just under the bard's left eye, which flutters shut, already swelling a bit. But then those blue eyes are wide and staring again, as they should be, wise to keep watch while in the witcher's grasp.

Jaskier gasps, probably in pain, as Geralt takes his bottom lip between his fingers, wiping the blood with his thumb to find the split. He probably shouldn't be touching it. And he definitely shouldn't be thinking about taking that lip into his mouth and licking the wound.

But then those lips are moving again, heedless of his fingers. "Why are you looking at me like that?" asks Jaskier. "Is it that bad? Am I going to lose my pretty face?"

Geralt almost chuckles. "Not your whole face."

"But am I still pretty?"

After taking a beating for him, the least he can do is concede the compliment. "Aside from the shiner."

Jaskier beams. Then he immediately winces, clutching his mouth. "Ow!"

"You might want to take a break from running your mouth, if you want it to heal."

Geralt helps him up. Once the bard's back is turned, heading into the inn, the witcher licks the blood from his thumb. Just like the freak everyone seems to think that he is.

Why does he have to be so fucking weird?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Once again, come find my Witcher blog [here](http://www.lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for more headcanons I hope to work into fic someday... and tell me what else you'd like to see in this one! I have plans, but I'm open to suggestions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I got a new job :) Once again, thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos, I'm so overwhelmed and inspired! (And it's too funny how y'all drag Geralt so hard, I'm living for it.)
> 
> Please enjoy!

They’ve been sharing a room whenever they’re in town lately. It used to be because without pooling their coin, it would be either that, or having to camp for the night and go without bathing. Now, the coin is flowing a little heavier, but even so, it’s still cheaper to share. That way, they can afford to order the good wine at dinner, buy potion ingredients instead of wasting days wandering hard-to-reach terrain looking for rare herbs, repair the worn soles of Jaskier’s impractical boots.

But tonight, after all that shopping, their purses that were so heavy at the start of the week are already much too light again. They overspent. And the witcher still has one more luxury on his list he doesn’t want to leave uncrossed.

So Geralt plunks a couple coins into the bard's palm. "Go sing for the rest, get yourself a room."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be staying at the brothel tonight."

Jaskier's mouth falls wide open in indignation. Geralt is almost grateful for the amount of conflicting smells on the street, mud and horses and the imprints of passersby, so he can’t quite distinguish the slightly bitter tang the bard’s disappointment always leaves on his tongue.

"That's rich!” says Jaskier. “Why do I have to work while you go play? Why don't you go kill another beast, and I go to the brothel? Or better yet, I simply charm my way into somebody's bed, and get to keep my coin!"

"That sounds like a plan," grumbles Geralt.

"Why do you even pay, anyway?" asks Jaskier. "Have you ever looked in a mirror?"

Geralt grunts. "Not often."

"Well, as I'm sure you no doubt hear wherever you go－whenever you're not glaring daggers, anyway－you're－I mean－" For once, the poet is apparently at a loss for words. And once he finds them, they're not exactly poetry. “You're bloody _gorgeous_."

It's not that he's never heard that. Mostly from whores, and of course, they're paid to say so. True, they do tend to compete with each other to secure him for the night, and once or twice, some have even offered to lay with him for free. But just as many cringe at the sight of him, hearts racing, fear rank. He’s even been turned away at the door.

Of course, there's been a few ordinary women (and fewer men) who've flattered him, tried to follow him around, into his bed. Sometimes, he accepts. But it's not for his looks, no matter what any of them say. It's for the same reason that some whores fight over him. Some people like being scared. Or at least, they want to be rattled out of the humdrum of their everyday lives, taken on a secondhand adventure. A night with a witcher is a story to tell.

"Geralt?" asks Jaskier.

"Hmm?"

"You know that, right? Do people not dare to call you lovely to your face? I know you usually walk around looking like someone hit Roach and you're going to kill the man that did it once you find him, but even so－uh, _whoof_."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier?"

"Nothing," he says. "Nevermind. Have a nice tumble, I guess."

"I'm too sore for that," says Geralt, even though he doesn't have to explain himself. Why exactly is he explaining himself? "If I don't have my shoulders rubbed, they're going to snap."

"Well, why didn't you just ask me?" says Jaskier. "I have oil in my bag!"

Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Ever the opportunist."

"Well, here's an opportunity, excuse me for being prepared."

Opportunity… for _what_? On instinct, he nips the thought in the bud. The bard might flirt with anything in a dress… or pants… or, well, anyone at all－including himself, he’s not _that_ dense－but if it weren’t only out of habit, if he really wanted to try seducing a _witcher_ of all people－

No, he couldn’t be _that_ brave, or stupid.

"I don't think so, bard."

"There's no call to be dainty," says Jaskier. "Besides, I'm stronger than I look. I could play those tight sinews like a lute."

Geralt growls. Hopefully, it's properly intimidating, and not at all slightly piqued with interest. He could use some strong hands on his knotted muscles.

"For the price of the room?"

There’s only one left at the inn, with only one bed. Well. They were going to be getting uncomfortably close tonight, anyway.

Before he knows it, he's laying face down in bed, fresh from a bath and almost naked save for his smallclothes, too relaxed to care that the fully clothed bard is sitting right on his ass. Those hands digging into his shoulders were stronger than he'd expected. The scent of chamomile and dandelions is headier than wine. So is that gently humming voice that seems to curl right under his spine, even deeper than those soothing fingers. Soon, they've worked all the way down, pressing painfully sweet around his tailbone. His thumbs curl just under the hem of his smallclothes.

"Shall I keep going?" asks Jaskier.

Geralt growls.

Jaskier's heart gives a painful jolt. His hands flit away in a hurry, and his legs shift, as he moves to slide off. "Right, boundaries, and all that, wouldn't want to cross－"

"I didn't say stop."

Jaskier goes still on top of him. His heart doesn't. "Oh?"

"Keep going."

Gealt lifts his hips, allowing himself to be stripped fully bare. Jaskier moves to kneel between his legs, digging his hands into his bottom.

He didn't even realize how much tension he carried in those muscles. An actual pain in the ass. Aside from the bard, who could be forgiven, for the moment. He even groans, no longer trying to disguise his pleasure. Jaskier tenses, ready to bolt again, until he realizes it’s not an angry noise.

"All right, but you really expect me to believe no one's ever told you what a lovely ass you have?"

He doesn't know what to say. So he says nothing. Not even "Hmm".

"Well, you have a lovely ass," said Jaskier. "There."

Jaskier is lucky his hands are so clever and attentive. He's lulled all the witcher's limbs into too lax a state to dream of bucking him off and retaliating somehow.

He’s just glad that humans apparently can’t smell as well as he can. At least, he hopes they can’t smell sex, not unless the deed’s actually been done, not merely anticipated. His own arousal feels so obvious in the air, under the chamomile and dandelions.

Nothing can fool a witcher's nose. That musky smell is unmistakable. But… it’s not his own. Not just his own.

_Oh._

Is that why the bard’s heart beats so fast around the witcher? Why he doesn’t smell of fear? It could explain why he’s been following him around, heedless of every danger. Fuck, but the man is _tenacious_. Had he been thinking about this ever since he spotted the witcher from the floor of a tavern, shoving bread down his pants? Or did it grow slowly, this…totally inexplicable and absolutely ill-advised lust?

Did he just want to fuck a witcher? It would be a story to tell. Or sing, if he doesn’t know what’s good for him. And he really doesn’t.

If the bard got what he wanted, would he leave?

Geralt’s chest tightens at the thought. But it would be wrong to miss him. Jaskier would be so much safer without him, if he just went home, wherever that might end up being. He wouldn’t find it on on the road, with a witcher. Geralt couldn’t offer him anything, aside from a bloody end.

Well, then again. Maybe he could offer one good night. That’s usually all Jaskier ever sought from any partner, woman or man, anyway. If he ever bothered notching his belt, he would run out of leather.

But then those hands cease their work, and then the warm body above him slips away, leaving him almost cold without it.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt finds it hard to turn his head, his muscles still so relaxed, but as soon as he does, his own slow heartbeat quickens. Jaskier is whipping his undershirt over his head, letting his pants fall to the floor, his back to him. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but right _now－_

Jaskier’s skin is smooth and unscarred, his body lithe but strong, and that sweet little _ass－_

Well, if this is _happening,_ he’s not going to complain－though once it’s over, he might just miss Jaskier, when he’s gone－

But then the bard gives a little yelp as he climbs into the bathtub, nearly slipping as he sinks into the water.

“What are you doing?” growls Geralt. “It’s cold.”

“Right!” Jaskier’s voice whines a bit, near chattering. “Yes, good, I _l-love_ an _i-ice_ cold bath!”

Geralt shuts his eyes, muffling a silent near-laugh into the sheets. Even if he couldn’t mistake that smell, it’s not as if Jaskier could help his reaction. At last, plumbing the very depths of his being, the bard must’ve found an ounce of self-preservation. He doesn’t actually _want_ to want a witcher. For once, he knows better.

So he won’t be rid of the bard, after all. And he’s still not even sure why he’s around, anyway.

He wakes up in the morning with Jaskier at his side. Clothed, practically hanging off the bed, while Geralt is still naked, sprawled belly down in the same spot where he must've fallen asleep, that relaxed from the massage. For all his purported strength, Jaskier must not have been able to push him over to his own side. So he fell asleep tucked against him, his cheek resting on Geralt's arm, lashes dark against his pale skin, his features so delicate. He’s the one who's lovely.

It would be a shame if anything happened to that little face. Already, he’s seen it covered in too much blood.

He takes in a breath of dandelions. And then he growls.

"Bard!”

Jaskier squeaks and rolls right off the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter or so, we're going to be coming up on the show timeline-- if you guys could chime in on your preferences there, I'd be so appreciative. Would you rather I skim past canonical events and focus on new content, or do you guys enjoy canon interpreted in the context of fic? Lemme know in the comments, or come talk to me on my [tumblr!](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this should be the last delay! For some reason I got inspired out of linear order (side-eyes Netflix), but now I've bridged the gaps, so I should be able to update regularly. Once again, thank you for all your kind comments, and the feedback regarding canon, it helped me to write the chapters that are coming up.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt can't unsee it, when they return to the road. Unhear it, unsmell it… even unfeel it, every time those warm hands find an excuse to brush his arm, his shoulder, his hair. At this point, all that's left to wish undone is taste. Those pink, constantly moving lips have found new ways to annoy. It would be so easy to just grab the bard and shut him up with a kiss.

Except that it’s not easy. The witcher never makes the first move. It’s backfired before. And he’d rather miss out, sleep alone, take care of his own needs--than ever, ever have to watch someone flinch back, fear spiking, heart racing--because he’d been fool enough to think his touch might be welcome. It’s better to wait, and be surprised if touch comes to him.

And it does. Constantly. Nobody’s ever touched him as much as Jaskier. Helping him in and out of his armor, brushing his hair, massaging his shoulders--all with his heartbeat hammering, his scent going musky--

Fuck. He ought to have noticed sooner. But why hasn’t it gone any farther? Jaskier is never shy about chasing comely farmer’s daughters and pretty lord’s sons, statuesque noble wives and brawny stablemen.

Well, maybe Jaskier's own needs are met, occupied with passing flings whenever they’re in town, rather than his traveling companion. He hasn’t even flirted lately. The well of compliments about the witcher's muscles and his hair and his ass seem to have dried up. Even the bard's singing on the road has gone quieter, his strumming by the campfire soft and pensive.

Maybe he is getting bored with life on the road, after all. If that’s the case, then perhaps it’s not so unwise to give into the temptation of those clever hands and petal lips. Get his fill of that touch, and touch him back, find out how he tastes. And after the thrill of the chase is over, surely the bard will be sated, and go home.

The witcher waits till they're in town again. Once they can get a room. It would be awkward to keep traveling the same way only to part once they’ve returned to civilization, or worse, for him to leave the bard on the road. Not that he plans to leave. But he can’t imagine it going any other way. That’s just what happens after fucking, as he’s known it, all his life. Afterwards, he’s alone again.

Once they arrive at the tavern, the owner hires him immediately. For once, not to kill something, but bring it back, a missing forest spirit worshipped by the locals. The woman doesn’t have much coin to offer up front, but she’ll let them stay for free, and eat and drink to their heart’s content, on the house.

Jaskier grumbles, as they head upstairs. “I suppose I’ll be making up the loss, then.”

As if it’s such a chore for him to sing. He does it anyway, whether he gets paid for it or not.

First, a bath, because nothing is going to happen if the witcher doesn’t bathe. Then dinner, and drink for courage. And after the bard is done working, he has to say something. This can’t go on any longer.

Downstairs, after a light meal--the bard doesn’t like to perform on a full belly--he’s belting, riling up the crowd, leaving his wistful humming and melancholy strumming behind, favoring his loudest and bawdiest of songs tonight, aside from the usual witcher-centered favorites. Between his performance, and the tavern’s most expensive wine, his skin is flushed, cheeks rosy, lips red and wetted with that constantly flicking tongue.

Geralt can’t keep his eyes off of him. But he’s not alone.

There’s a big, battle-scarred man that the witcher spotted as soon as they walked in, always wary, taking stock of every face. Perhaps a mercenary, or soldier for hire, judging from the leather armor, his face not old, but hardened. Though he smiles easily, maybe plied by the ale, or the filthy lyrics--or the bard’s close hovering, making the rounds but coming back again and again.

At last, Jaskier sits on top of the table, in front of the man, who rests a hand on his knee. They might be across the room, but Geralt can hear every word.

"Let me buy you another drink."

"You're too kind,” says Jaskier. His tone is familiar, playing coy, but definitely interested. “Do save your coin. I'm on the witcher's tab tonight."

"Is he doing more with that arse than saving it?"

Geralt’s fists clench. They’re too far for him to smell anything, distinguish their heartbeats from the rest of the din.

"He should be so lucky," says Jaskier.

Well. Nothing is going to happen tonight, then. At least he’ll be alone in the room, so he can take care of himself, as usual. He’ll just have to try and keep out all thoughts of that fucking mercenary getting his hands and his stink and his stupid smirking mouth all over Jaskier.

And in the morning, he’ll leave early for the job, so he doesn’t have to smell the aftermath. He can decide when he gets back whether or not they’ll meet up again, if the bard isn’t already gone by then.

Geralt begins draining the last of his ale as the mercenary’s hand moves from Jaskier’s knee to his thigh. But something’s wrong. Jaskier is tensing, sliding his lute protectively from his front to his back. The mercenary’s grip is too hard, his face twisting, that smile long gone.

"Get your filthy hands off of me!"

He's on his feet, dodging diners and drinkers. What happened? He shouldn’t have gotten so damned distracted.

Jaskier grabs the dinner plate in front of him and breaks it over the man’s head.

By the time the witcher gets there, one of the other patrons is already grabbing the mercenary from behind, and a barmaid is pulling on Jaskier’s jacket, trying to free the bard from the man’s grip. It’s almost jarring, seeing folk rushing to aid, rather than forming a mob.

The mercenary elbows the intervening man in the face, letting go of Jaskier's shirt only to reach for the sword at his back.

"Geralt!"

But there's already a blade at the mercenary's throat. Steel for humans.

"Try it," says the witcher.

The tavern owner pushes through the crowd. "If you wouldn't mind escorting him out, witcher," she says. "I had to throw him out last week for the same shite."

The mercenary's face has gone nearly purple with rage. But he stands, prompted by steel.

"Just watch," says the man, looking at Jaskier. "I'll take your butcher yet."

Jaskier follows them outside. "Right, I'm working on the song already, the tale of the shit-all nobody who came out of the blue and miraculously managed to best the greatest witcher that's ever lived! Oh wait, that's nothing. You're nothing. Who's next? There's always someone--"

The mercenary mutters curses under his breath, vile things he wants to do to Jaskier. It would be so easy to move his blade and open that worthless throat.

But not in front of Jaskier. So he takes his hilt and crashes it down on the man's head, knocking him out cold. His body slumps to the dirt just outside the tavern door. Maybe the owner can have him picked up by the constable before he wakes in the morning.

If he wakes up. Geralt knows he ought to turn the man over, in case he vomits, but he doesn't.

Jaskier gives the body a kick. "Cur."

"I thought you two were getting along."

"You noticed? Well, perhaps, up till he insisted he could take you in a fight. I just had to correct him.”

Geralt nearly smiles. "Are you ever going to stop boasting on my behalf?

"I can't help it," says Jaskier. "It's a calling."

They go back inside for more free food and drink. Might as well get their fill.

The tavern owner comes around to thank them again, and give them a pie they're too full to eat, but will make a fine breakfast. They order a drink for the man who came to their aid, who's a good sport about his new shiner, and laughs at the little ditty that Jaskier makes up for him on the spot.

"Wait till I tell my wife there's a song about me," he says. "Maybe she won't be so mad about my face."

Then the barmaid also comes around to check on them. Rather, on Jaskier.

"Are you all right, love?" she asks. "I know what it's like to be pawed at."

As if she isn't pawing at Jaskier's shoulders herself. But the bard grins.

"I've seen much scarier."

He winks at Geralt. But the barmaid laughs.

Jaskier turns back to her, with a story on his tongue. Geralt knows this one. It's his favorite for getting ladies to clutch their chests.

Ah, fuck.

An hour or two before dawn--long after Geralt's taken care of himself, laying alone in bed--the door of their room creaks open.

Jaskier tries to be quiet as he takes off his boots and pads across the room. But his scent is loud, full of sweat and sex. At least he smells of barmaid, not bastard mercenary.

The bed sinks as Jaskier crawls next to him, not far from his back. His heartbeat is a little brisk.

"Geralt?"

"Hmmm."

"Sorry to wake you, but, I just wanted to say thanks." He hesitates, but then, he goes ahead and echoes the words. "For saving my arse, again."

Maybe it's the time of night, or the headiness of that smell. But he rarely loosens his tongue like this. "I could do more."

"Hmm, what?"

He doesn't answer. And Jaskier doesn't ask again. Perhaps the bard has already fallen asleep.

But then there's a weight at his shoulder. Jaskier is pressing his brow to his back, his hand warm on his hip.

Why leave the soft, comfortable barmaid and come wrap his arms around a tough, hard witcher instead?

But he doesn't shake him off. Even if it makes his chest tight, the warmth of that smaller body against his back, his heartbeat at rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you guys for all your kind kudos and comments, they make me shriek out loud <3
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! ;)

Jaskier coaxes the forest spirit back to the village with a song.

"By rights, I just earned _all_ your coin."

Geralt grumbles. "Half," he says. "I tracked it down."

He thinks, for a moment, that it doesn’t matter. It’s all going to the same room, at their next stop, the same food and drink. Except, maybe this time, it’s not. Once he gives the bard what he wants－what he surely does want, even if he hasn’t said anything－

Or once he gets rejected. Finally scaring the bard off.

They're back in the tavern, taking the second half of their payment in food and drink. Jaskier plays again, a little more subdued this time, and sticking close to Geralt. This time, it's his table the bard sprawls on. But there's no troublemakers to be seen this time.

It's been a while since Jaskier sang about him to his face. Every time he used to try, early on, the witcher would glare, and if the bard pressed on after that, he sometimes simply got up and left.

But now, Jaskier looks at him a little differently, no longer cheeky, making a show for everyone, but… thoughtful, looking up through his lashes. Almost _shy_. As if it's a serenade, just between the two of them, no one else in the room.

Geralt wants to put his hand on his knee. Even higher, actually. But the last man to do that to him had been a forceful, imposing bastard, and now, the gesture feels spoilt. So he just sits back and watches, keeping his hands to himself. He’s gotten entirely too used to that.

Then the show is over, bows and thanks. Jaskier climbs down beside him, helping himself to a sip of Geralt’s ale and a chicken leg off his plate, while waiting for the barmaid to bring his second helping of dinner and third cup of wine. It’s the same girl, who’s been hovering, as if she didn’t mind how the bard took his leave last time. 

Jaskier is all smiles and politeness with her, but not as enthusiastic as last time, having gotten a taste already. But that doesn’t mean he won’t go back for seconds if no one else catches his eye the rest of the night. Their hands brush when she brings him a fourth cup.

Well, this could go on forever, if he lets it. But he’d rather not. He could get torn to shreds by a kikimora tomorrow, without ever having tasted those rosy lips. It’s time.

Geralt puts an hand on the bard’s back, lower than he usually dares. It hastens that heartbeat. “Slow down.”

“You’re no fun,” says Jaskier. “If we didn’t get our coin’s worth, I’ll take my payment in a good night, and an awful morning.”

Our coin, their payment. So familiar. It’s going to be strange, going back to just his coin. His room, his bed.

But he’ll never forget that scent. Even now, he leans in, taking in dandelions and wine-tipsy musk, as he murmurs into his ear.

“If you get too shitfaced－” Geralt lets his voice rumble low. “－I won’t be able to take you to bed.”

Jaskier drops his goblet, splashing all over the floor. He jumps right up, embarrassed, as the barmaid comes over with a cloth. He doesn’t look at Geralt, staring with flushed cheeks at the floor, the wall, his hands, until the mess is gone and he’s able to take his seat again. He does so slowly, those blue eyes finally drifting up, suddenly a little more sober.

“Geralt,” he says, softly. “I know you don’t like using your words, but, if you’d be so kind, I need you to elaborate for me.”

“Let’s fuck.”

Jaskier laughs. He throws his head back, slapping the table. Not exactly the reaction he’d hoped to get. It’s almost enough to make him second guess this decision, and his senses. Those heartbeats, his scent－he couldn’t be mistaken－

And he's not. Leaning in－doing his best to ignore the smells of food and drink and people－there’s that arousal again.

Jaskier’s eyes are alight, as he catches his breath enough to speak. “Is that really your best effort to woo me?”

“Do you need wooing?”

That sweet mouth falls open, but not too far. “What if I’m not so easy?”

Geralt fights a smile. “Well, then, good night.”

He even gets up, turning as if to take his leave.

“ _Geralt_!”

Jaskier nearly trips as he shoots up. Geralt grabs his arms to steady him, their faces close.

“Wait,” says Jaskier. He gulps, looking up at him. “Really, though? You’re not… having a laugh at me?”

“Am I laughing now?”

“A little bit.” Jaskier reaches up, his fingertips just barely brushing the corners of Geralt’s lips. “Just not out loud.”

Geralt smiles. At least, he tries. He’s not used to it. He only hopes it doesn’t look weird on his face.

“I’m laughing with you.”

Jaskier beams. He leans up a little, but then, they both go still, looking around at the crowded tavern as if they’d forgotten where they even were. Probably no one would give two shits, aside from the barmaid, but the witcher’s not in the habit of letting his guard down in public.

After bidding the tavern owner good night, forgoing the rest of their fill, it’s a short but entirely too long trip up the stairs. Jaskier is quiet, for once. Geralt nearly wants to ask him something, prompt him into his usual volume, but he doesn’t know what to say. And his heartbeat speaks for itself.

It’s strange, when they get upstairs. They’ve been here before, sharing a room, a bed, even seeing each other naked. So, at first, it doesn’t feel any different, aside from the fact that they’re standing there, staring at each other, instead of simply taking off their boots and a couple of layers before laying down to sleep. Actually, doing away with the boots is as good a start as any. But then, they're standing there barefooted, and the same problem remains.

Where to start? He never makes the first move.

Jaskier pulls in a little closer, his hands hovering over his chest. His heart is nearly deafening.

“Why now, though?” he asks, at last, as if for once, he’s been holding back his thoughts, rather than letting them spill out immediately. “You’ve never even looked at me twice."

Geralt doesn't laugh, so much as rumble. "I've looked."

"You mean you've _glared_? If I didn't know better, I would've thought you were constantly planning my death, or just to get rid of me, in a not-so-deadly but probably still rude manner. Which, you could've done at any time－"

As much as he’d like to shut him up, hard and fast, that’s not how the witcher goes about these things. He always presses in slowly, on the rare occasion he goes in for a kiss. Tentative, so as not to startle his would-be partner, give them ample chance to make up the distance, take his lips first－or change their mind and turn away.

It’s happened. Every once in a while, a woman who’s been bold in her advances suddenly loses the nerve, not as brave as she’d thought. And he never holds it against her.

But as he closes in, their bodies nearly flush, noses nearly brushing, the words are still flooding, and those lips are still too far.

“－You could’ve just kicked Roach into a run, and left me in the dust. Or packed up camp and left me in the wild before I woke up. But, but, letting me tag along is a far cry from－from _actually_ －”

Jaskier lets out a startled, near silent yelp against the finger pressed to his lips. Then that hand drifts down to the dip below his throat, feeling for the thundering pulse roaring in the witcher's ears.

Geralt can't hold back any longer. It’s not a kiss, but it’s not keeping his distance, either. He leans in, into the crook of that lovely neck. That scent goes to his head like wine, drowning out every other sense for a blissful moment, flowers and sex and _Jaskier_. He almost doesn't even mind the slight sour aftertaste of trepidation. Close to fear, but not the same.

" _Oh_ ," says Jaskier. "That's why you're always sniffing me."

Those arms are finally coming up around him, clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer. He presses his lips to his neck, gentle as always, practically tame.

Jaskier laughs. “This is－oh, it’s _really_ happening－"

One hand curls in his hair, the other cupping his jaw. At last, he pulls the witcher up to his mouth.

Geralt tries to go slow, as usual, careful not to startle. But Jaskier just moans, almost impatient, trying to crush their lips closer, nipping with his teeth, like a provocation.

He can't help but growl. Jaskier licks into it, with a shiver, shaking terribly, but not with fear.

Geralt goes back to Jaskier’s neck, finding the pulse thrumming at the base of his throat. Then he laves his tongue over it, lets his too-sharp teeth catch a little, like a test, one last warning.

"Geralt," says Jaskier, with a laugh. "I named you well, didn't I? Oh, wolf, indeed..."

Geralt growls again, into his throat. Jaskier only giggles, pulling him up to catch his lips once more, laughing into his mouth. On instinct, Geralt nearly swallows his own rising chuckle back down, as usual. But instead, he lets it out, muffled, shared like breath between them.

That’s when it hits him. He’s never done this with someone who actually _knows_ him. That’s almost enough to make him change his mind. He usually pays coin for a reason.

Two out of the handful of men he’s been with were other witchers, or witchers-in-training, only youths at the time. One of them hadn’t passed the second rounds of trials. The other died a year into his travels.

The only other man, neither a witcher nor a whore, had been a sturdy young stablehand, just hoping to protect his horses from a particularly starved and desperate wyvern. He’d followed the witcher with vengeance and admiration in his heart. And he hadn’t come back.

Geralt pulls back, drawing a little whining complaint from Jaskier's throat. His hands reach up to cup that lovely face, tilt it up to meet his eyes. He brings their brows together.

“Jaskier,” he says. “Are you sure?”

Those blue eyes are hazy, too hungry to see any danger. His scent is _overwhelming_.

“Geralt,” says Jaskier. “Shut up.”

Geralt smiles into their next kiss, letting himself to be pushed towards the bed, as few men have ever dared to try shoving a witcher. He even raises his arms to surrender his shirt, allows his hair tie to be yanked off a little too hard.

Jaskier’s hands flit all over him, through his loose hair and down his shoulders, over his arms and down his chest. "How are your arms so huge? They're bigger than my head! Sweet Melitele, your stomach could cut diamonds－"

Maybe the witcher hadn't taken any of these compliments to heart before now－and why would he, how could he trust anyone's flattery, it's nearly always a trap－but now that he knows what the bard wants, and he's offering it up, no need to coax or trick－

Well, now those words are settling, warm in his belly, and his chest, and going right to his cock.

"I've always wondered why you keep your hair long, when it just gets in the way," says Jaskier, one hand tangling in his locks while the other is shamelessly groping his muscles. "It's because it's so lovely, isn't it? And you _like_ having it touched－"

Geralt doesn't growl so much as rumble, deep in his chest, as pleased a sound as he’s able to make.

He doesn’t like to take off his partner’s clothes, as a rule. But Jaskier is out of his doublet and shirt with impressive haste, undoing the laces at the back of his pants with such _practiced_ speed, one-handed, the witcher doesn’t even want to think about it. But he’s not about to complain about suddenly having a naked Jaskier in his lap.

He tries to slow their pace, even if he’s painfully hard, fit to rip through his pants. But they don’t have much time together, and he wants it to last, at least in his memory, if not in the moment. So he takes his time, mapping all that soft, unscarred skin with his hands like he used to do with only furtive glances. Tracing the curve of his spine, mouthing his collarbone, kneading his ass.

“ _Geralt_ －”

Jaskier whines in frustration, rocking his hips. Geralt finally acknowledges the cock that’s been poking insistently into his stomach, his hand still slow, and gentle, but to a much different purpose. The sounds pouring from those petal lips, panted hot into his neck, sound sweet as birdsong.

Ah, fuck, _poetry_. He's been traveling with a bard for too long.

Jaskier leans back in his lap and begins unbuttoning the witcher's pants, tight enough now to make loosing them a challenge. Geralt lays down, groaning with relief once he's free.

"Oh, sweet mother of－"

Jaskier's heartbeat spikes. So does his scent, the trepidation back, along with even more arousal. He might’ve seen the witcher’s cock before, but not at its full potential. But, fearless as ever, he doesn’t hesitate to dive down and try his best to swallow him whole.

Geralt grunts with the effort of holding back, not bucking into that pretty mouth. He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought of this strategy for shutting the bard up. But Jaskier knows what he's doing, truly silver-tongued, even if his tricks are probably better suited for someone who leaves a little more room. He uses his hands on the length that remains, and those lute-calloused fingers are too clever for their own good. Geralt nearly comes from the brushing the back of that lovely throat.

Jaskier pulls off just in time, catching his breath and moving his jaw a bit. "Ow."

Geralt kicks off the pants they didn't even get all the way off and pulls the bard on top again. He can't help but growl. "Come here."

Jaskier grins down at him, lips swollen, lids heavy. “Gods, your _eyes_ －”

Geralt takes both their cocks in hand, wrenching a ragged moan from Jaskier. He's not so gentle now, patience fraying, with all that soft, flushed skin sticking against him, heartbeat drumming, his smell so fucking _good_ －

"Wait, Geralt－"

He stops immediately, even though it nearly hurts.

Jaskier bites his lip. "I want－oh, _gods_ －please just take me."

Geralt can't help but smile at the thought, even though he still raises his eyebrows. "I don't think I'll fit."

“I'm not some maid who's never had－”

“ _Jaskier_ －”

No fucking self-preservation whatsoever.

“Geralt, you could _kill_ me and I wouldn’t mind.”

"And I might,” he snaps.

Jaskier climbs off of him, leaving the bed. For a moment, the witcher's heart sinks. Only to rally at the sight of the bard bending over, searching his pack. He's doing that on purpose.

He comes back with chamomile oil and pleading eyes. “Please, Geralt.”

Damn it.

It feels rushed. Too much too soon, doing what ought to be worked up to slowly, between more habitual lovers. They should be sticking with hands and mouths－and what clever hands, such a sweet mouth－but then again, they might not get another chance. He doesn’t expect they’ll have more than one night.

Judging from the bard's desperation, maybe he thinks the same.

So Geralt slips an oiled finger, then another. Jaskier writhes on top of him, really showing off his vocal range, whining so high one moment and moaning low the next. But it’s too loud. They’re going to wake the whole inn.

For once, he’s sorry to shut the bard up. But he’s always wanted to clap a hand over his mouth like this. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, his moan hot and muffled against his palm.

Three fingers, and it's still not enough, he'll be split in two. But, brave and stupid as ever, Jaskier still sinks onto him. His hands bite nail first into the witcher’s shoulders as he’s breached.

Geralt expected a cry behind his hand. But there's no muffled noise, breath against his palm.

"Jaskier?"

He lets his hand fall, so he can see his face. Jaskier bites his lip hard enough to nearly bleed, eyes squeezed shut. It takes the same willpower as a hunt to keep his body in check, not buck into that tight warmth clenching around him. Not when it could really hurt.

Geralt reaches up to brush that sweating brow, silky hair damp and clinging. “We could stop－”

When they open, those blue eyes are hazy. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Jaskier presses down, taking him deeper. Not all the way, but farther than most, clenching and trembling all the while as his muscles try and relax enough to take him. Geralt runs his fingers through his hair, pulls him down into a kiss.

Then Jaskier draws himself up again, arching his back.

"Go on, witcher," he says. "Ruin me."

Geralt covers that mouth again, but there's no need. Only a soft whimper hums against his hand. He moves slowly, shaking with the effort, lifting those hips just so and keeping them from coming down too hard.

"Geralt－I _said_ －" Jaskier’s protest turns into a moan. He turns his head away from the hand reaching up to muzzle him again. "Are you－ _ah_ －always this gentle?"

It might not be the answer he wants. But it's the truth. "I have to be."

"Not with me," says Jaskier. "I'm not scared of you."

Something in him _snaps_. Geralt rolls him over, pinning his wrists down to the bed, and then, he gives up trying to reign back, and thrusts.

Jaskier keens. Geralt releases his wrists and covers that sweet mouth again instead.

"You have the most wonderful singing voice," says Geralt. Jaskier squeaks in surprise under his palm. "But you're going to get us thrown out of this inn, _songbird."_

Then he pounds his hips mercilessly, again and again. He tries not to let it scare him, the way Jaskier thrashes beneath him, nails raking down his back, his screams muffled but vibrating through his chest. But there's still no fear in his scent. Just lust, and sweat, and dandelions. So he lets go, burying himself hard and fast, losing himself in his warmth and his smell and his pulse roaring louder than the blood in his ears－

Jaskier spills untouched over their stomachs. Geralt doesn't last long after that, pulsing _deep_ , cresting on that brief, whiteout moment of forgetfulness. For a few seconds, he’s not a witcher. Just a man, lost inside someone who’s not afraid of him.

And then it’s over.

He’s not human, after all. Just tangled up with one. But not for long. Even if they’re still kissing now, in the afterglow. Soon, he’ll be alone again.

Maybe they shouldn’t have done this. He could’ve let the bard tag along a little while longer, singing his stupid songs, stealing his drink, starting fights－

Until when? He got maimed, or killed? Or, much less tragic, but still painful－until he got bored? It’s better to end their story this way, with a kiss. And so much more. At least he got to taste him, mingle their scents.

Now, under the sweat and sex, he smells like dandelions. And Jaskier smells like him. Not exactly _good_ , but, not bad enough to kick out of bed, apparently.

Geralt rolls over onto his back, used to being too heavy to let himself collapse on a partner. But Jaskier makes a throaty noise of protest, his voice hoarse from all that muffled screaming.

That’s when Geralt notices. Jaskier hasn’t said any actual _words_ in too long _._ Once, that might’ve been a blessing. But now, it’s just worrying.

“Jaskier?”

He’s still on his back, eyes fluttering open. “Hmm?”

Geralt almost laughs. Is that how getting a “hmm” feels?

Maybe Jaskier is just exhausted, utterly fucked out. But just in case, he has to ask. "What are you thinking?"

Jaskier curls up to him, resting his cheek on his chest. "Are you... actually asking?"

Geralt smiles. "Nevermind."

That gets him a swat to his shoulder, but not hard, and at such a bad angle, it's almost more of a grope. It makes him chuckle.

"Tell me," says Geralt.

Jaskier presses in closer, tracing a finger over his medallion. He would've minded anyone else touching it. But the bard seems almost reverent, knowing the weight the talisman carries.

"Just composing a little."

"You usually do that out loud."

He feels rather than sees the shake of the head against his chest. "Not always."

“If you’re thinking about writing this into a song－”

Jaskier gives a little hum of a laugh. “Don’t worry, it’s not that.”

What else would he know better than to sing aloud? Whatever it is, he might forget it in his sleep. His breaths are already rhythmic, his heart at rest, beating against his skin.

But the witcher can't sleep. Not when one of them is going to be gone, come morning. If this could be the last he'll get to take in that scent, feel that heartbeat, he's got to stay awake, make it last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time posting smut so I'm gonna go hide now, love y'all


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I'm so relieved y'all liked the last chapter, I wish compliments didn't literally shut down my brain so I could respond to all your lovely comments <3 Just know that I squee'd into my pillow a lot.
> 
> (By the way, what happened to "squee"? Oh my god, I'm old.)

Jaskier is still there in the morning. He'd rolled off of his chest, curling up on his side. Geralt wants to follow him, press against his back, with his arms around his waist, but if they tangle together, then whenever one of them gets up to leave, they'll wake the other. He'd rather make a clean escape.

Rather, he hopes Jaskier will make the clean escape. So he turns on his side and tries to go back to sleep, to give the bard the opportunity.

But when he wakes up again, there's an arm across his side. Jaskier presses against his back, with a light, contented snore.

So he's got to be the one to leave. Somehow. If he waits for the bard to wake up, they could be here till noon. He'd lay there, warm, and helpless, and hating himself all the while for what he's about to do.

Why is he hesitating? Wouldn't it be better to be the one to leave, rather than face Jaskier's stammering excuses, watching him pack up his things? Maybe the only thing braver than bedding a witcher is leaving a witcher in the morning.

Jaskier makes a little noise in his throat. "Hmm?"

Geralt's heart skips a beat.

"Hmmm," says Jaskier again, stealing his line again. Lips press to his shoulder, right on the scar. "Hello, there."

So... he's not in any hurry. Maybe they don't need to be so furtive about this.

Jaskier's hands wind in his hair. "I'm glad I didn't dream all that. I almost want to ask and make sure, but－judging from the glorious _pain_ in my ass－I'm pretty sure it did."

"You're welcome."

That laugh tickles his ear.

"Do you think we could…” Teeth scrape over his skin, too gentle to be a bite. “Oof, ouch, nevermind, I want more, but I really _don’t_. You think we could stay for one more night? I much prefer beds, although, I don't think I've ever done it in a bedroll－"

Jaskier keeps prattling on happily, as Geralt turns over to look at him, simply propping his chin on his shoulder and tracing his fingers idly over his scarred skin.

"－then again, I suppose we could be as loud as we want out in the wild, right? Or would that draw monsters? Are all the stories about lovers in the woods getting attacked true, or do they just tell those tales to keep naughty youths from sneaking out together?”

That's when it hits the witcher. His bard is not planning on going anywhere.

What would that even be like? Sharing his bed, or bedroll, with the same person every night, in different towns and terrains, as if he had a roof and a hearth to offer, and not just the stars and campfire?

It's not much different, actually, once they set out. Jaskier touches him as often as ever, flirts just the same. They fuck once more, on the first night, which isn’t too unexpected, since they’d laid out their bed rolls right next to each other. So of course Jaskier crawls on top of him in the middle of the night, and they rut with most of their clothes on, like schoolboys, kissing desperately. But on the second and third night, they're too sweaty and sore, and they don’t want to get any dirtier.

They haven't kissed, except right before fucking. That's normal for Geralt. He rarely does one without the other. But, he's never had anyone around long enough for him to start wanting to kiss them, just for its own sake. Not until now. As usual, he waits, rather than moves.

It happens when he gets back to camp, cyclops head in tow. He smells fear. It’s sharp and sour, the real thing. As he’s never smelled on Jaskier, unless there’s monsters about.

 _Fuck_.

"Jaskier!"

Maybe the cyclops had a mate. Perhaps there were bandits, or wolves, or－

“Geralt!”

Jaskier is whole. There’s no scent of blood, as he runs up to him. No clothing ripped, nothing out of the ordinary, aside from his thundering pulse, and wide, tearful eyes. He smells salt.

Geralt nearly forgot, in his panic, that his own eyes are still black and veiny with toxins. He looks down, like that could possibly do anything to hide it. It’s not often anyone ever sees him like this, and whenever they do, they’d be wise to run. If not from the witcher, from whatever’s behind them.

But Jaskier doesn’t flinch. It’s Geralt that does, as those hands come up to cup his face. Jaskier’s lips press hard and desperate. Geralt doesn’t even close his eyes, staring in shock.

Jaskier pulls back to look into his face. There’s cyclops blood on his cheek. "Don't scare me like that again! Do you know how long you were gone? I thought for sure, the _one_ time I didn’t go with you, you got fucking _eaten_ , or a rock fell and crushed you, and I wouldn’t even－there’d be nothing to bury, everyone would just have to take me at my _word_ , and－Geralt, I _hate_ playing funerals－”

Geralt reaches for his cheek, wiping the tears and blood with his thumb. “Cyclops don't eat people."

Jaskier shoves him. And then he buries his head on his chest, muffling a sob.

Geralt puts an arm around him. He usually only does this when they're falling asleep. Never in full daylight.

“Did you start composing my dirge?”

Jaskier gives a sniffly laugh. “Not yet! I'm not eager to start that one. Not for a long, long, long time. It might just be the last song I ever write.”

Unless he well and truly fucks up, the witcher will long outlive this human, by several lifetimes. That's one reason he didn't want the bard around in the first place. Because, one way or another－whether by misadventure, or just old age－he’s going to lose him.

* * *

Geralt loses the bard considerably sooner.

Jaskier is sought after for a noble wedding in Touissant. They sent an actual herald to track him down, wearing the shiniest and stupidest cloth the witcher's ever laid eyes on, and bearing coin in advance to ensure the bard is dressed suited for the occasion. He’s certainly not dressed to answer the door of the room they’re renting, in only his open undershirt and unlaced pants.

He accepts the invitation graciously, almost bordering on cocky, as if it's no surprise to him that he's finally been invited to court. But his heart is leaping in his chest. In spite of the number of noble wives, and a husband or two, that he’s bedded－or perhaps because of that－he’s never performed at a function of any importance.

Afterwards, Jaskier closes the door, turning around and letting his back slide halfway down to the floor, laughing through a hand partly covering his mouth in disbelief. His excitement smells warm, salty-sweet on the witcher’s tongue.

Jaskier leaps back up to his feet with his arms outstretched. “So begins my _legacy_!”

Geralt almost smiles. But a frown settles on his face instead.

"Oh, I love weddings," says Jaskier, flopping down on the bed with dreamy sigh and beaming at the ceiling. "I'm going to get _so_ gloriously drunk.”

He rolls over to watch as the witcher begins to pack their bags, leaning his cheek on his hand. "Have you ever tried Toussaint Red?"

"Once," admits Geralt. He doesn't elaborate that he's lived for a long time. But he never actually visited Toussaint proper. There's nothing for a witcher in those warm, beautiful climes. Very rarely any monsters.

"It'll be my first time," says Jaskier. He draws himself up on the bed and hugs his knees, moony and utterly heedless of the witcher’s pacing around the room. "Let us toast to each other, dear witcher. I owe this to you."

Geralt stills for a moment, his back to Jaskier. He grinds his teeth. "Well done, bard."

Then he busies himself again, beginning to don his armor, ready to bear it on his back rather than pack it for the road. Jaskier slips off the bed and reaches to help him. Not that the witcher needs it, used to doing it alone.

"You won't be needing this, for once," says Jaskier, as he straps him in. "Well, unless you want to go sort of military formal, but what a wasted opportunity to see you in silk. I hope we have time to get you fitted and tailored, it would be a shame－ not to mention probably a _challenge_ －to just buy you clothes from a shop－"

"Save your breath," says Geralt. "I'm not going."

Jaskier never bothers trying to conceal his shock, his mouth always falling so far open. "You what?”

His sweet scent goes bitter, that tart disappointment that the witcher hates to swallow.

“Geralt－howin the _world_ could you pass this up?"

Geralt finishes his straps himself, since the bard’s hands are busy sitting indignant on those hips. "Is the duchess marrying a werewolf, perchance?"

He gets mostly sputtering in response. So the witcher gathers up the last of his gear. He almost didn’t notice that he’d packed up the bard’s things, as well, out of habit. His chest is tight.

"Enjoy the fine weather and wine." And company, no doubt. "I have a job to do."

Jaskier blocks his exit. "Really, can't you spare a little holiday?”

Geralt tilts his head doubtfully.

Jaskier huffs a breath. “Were you planning on just working and working until you die?"

"That’s the life."

"I mean－ _hardly_!” His hands grasp in the air, as if for an explanation. “For fuck’s sake, what’s the point? You risk your neck protecting by and large ungrateful humans, and for what? It doesn’t pay, you go without good food and a good bed, and－and anyone to warm it－"

"Maybe you could write a song about it."

That draws a small, perhaps resigned sigh, and the smell of salt. "Where would you go?"

"Southward," says Geralt. "And then, wherever the work takes me."

“Well－”

It’s rare that Jaskier arrives at a loss for words. Geralt would almost prefer for him to babble, rather than keep him waiting. It’s going to be strangely quiet, on the road, without that chattering mouth and racing heart.

"Geralt－if you only wanted a brief dalliance, you could just say so. I’m no stranger to these things. You know me. I carry torches like candles. If I fell－" He looks away, biting his cheek. "－just the _tiniest_ bit in love with you－”

The witcher’s slow heart begins to race.

“－It's soon to snuff out.”

And then, it seems to stop.

“We could carry on like usual,” says Jaskier.

“I don’t think so.”

Geralt is not about to forget the way those constantly moving lips taste, the way he looks under his clothes, the unique scent of their bodies combined. They’ve already carried on longer than they should have done.

But it’s not a bad ending. It’s probably the best they could’ve hoped to get. Little blood, no death, and apparently, only the slightest heartbreak. Just a snuffed candle, that’s all.

Maybe, next time the bard undresses for someone, his skin will still bear the marks of the witcher’s teeth.

“Right, well.” Jaskier’s voice is low, almost rough. “See you around. Take care of yourself, witcher.”

He would say the same, but there’s really no need. Jaskier would be safe in Toussaint. Geralt can only hope he’ll stay there, and not come back.

“Songbird,” he says, once the bard’s taken his already packed bag and lute, and left.

* * *

In the bitter cold of Temeria, the witcher is grateful he didn't bring the bard, throw him into the path of a disemboweling striga. It comforts him to picture Jaskier warm and safe and drunk on Toussaint Red as his vision goes dark, blood rushing through his fingers.

At least one of them might still get a happy ending.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaat? Two chapters at once?? I figured some of y'all might wanna skip the canon stuff, so if that's the case, slam that "next chapter" button and I'll include a super quick recap of what you need to know in the A/N of the next chapter. 
> 
> For the rest of you, thank you for staying, I hope you enjoy my hot takes.

Just when the witcher gets used to silence again on the road, the bard is waiting for him, in a tavern not far from Cintra. Right when he’d finally come to terms with never seeing those blue eyes and beaming smile again, hearing that wonderful voice. It had taken so many nights of camping with no strum of a lute accompanying the lighting of the stars, settling into rooms that were far too quiet and creaking, every bed to himself far too big and cold.

As if the reality hadn’t set in enough, for a brief moment, he’d really taken it to heart, while swimming in the darkness of a selkiemore’s stomach. But at least he hadn’t led the bard into that abyss. He might not have been able to drag him back out.

Geralt could swear the scent of dandelions hits him almost as soon as he slams open the door of the tavern. Even over the reek of insides on his outside. Then that familiar laugh rings, almost taunting him.

It’s nearly disappointing, having to start all over again. He’d finally lost the bard, and now, having gained him once more, he’ll only be prolonging another loss. Next time, it might not be wine country that takes him away. It could be another selkiemore, a wyvern, even stupid drowners－

“You’re welcome!”

He doesn’t like this new tone of Jaskier’s. Both too familiar, and somehow, not familiar enough. Perhaps that candle really has snuffed out.

But he’s still not scared of him in the slightest, even though the witcher’s manners are rusty again, after their time apart.

“Fuck off, bard.”

And what the hell does he care about food, women, and wine? Especially the women－not that he doesn’t like women, but he doesn’t want them dangled as bait. Not when Jaskier could just offer… well, himself. At least, his own company.

It’s strange to suddenly be naked and bathing in front of Jaskier again. Especially when the bard is being so _glib_ about it. His heart might’ve been beating a little fast, and there’s still a hint of that once ever-present arousal, but it’s not the same anymore. Especially the way he talks.

“It is one night bodyguarding your very best _friend_ －”

Geralt might not be able to put a name to whatever they are, but it's not that.

“I’m not your _friend_.”

“Oh, _really_ －”

And funny that Jaskier brings up the chamomile rub, but not the fucking. Then again, they both usually only fuck strangers. Maybe the massage had actually been more intimate? He's not versed enough to know.

It doesn’t help when the bard begins listing off all the other people he’s fucked, and how many others want to kill him for it. Well, he can add one to both lists. Hence, scary face.

And then the Jaskier goes and takes his beer, not even to drink it this time. And pats his naked shoulder so casually. No wonder the witcher is being so "unbearably crotchety" and "cantankerous".

“Come on, you must want _something_ for yourself－”

He’d never gotten his hopes up that he could ever have anything, before the bard came along.

“I want nothing.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches ever so slightly, as he pretends to inspect his nails.

“Well, who knows,” he says, falsely cheery. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

If it’s not the person standing in front of him, then he doubts it. No one else has ever been willing to follow him into the wild, through both boredom and danger. But, from the sound of things, the bard isn’t interested in the "monster-hunting nonsense" anymore. Probably too comfortable with his cushy royal appointments.

Which is for the best. It’s safer, that way. Aside from vengeful cuckolds, apparently.

“I need no one,” says Geralt. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet…here we are.”

But for how long? Just until this job is done? If the bard’s hoping for a little tumble afterwards, he’s got another thing coming.

“Where the _fuck_ are my clothes, Jaskier?”

But those hands are still so clever, running through his wet hair. Jaskier is no longer squeamish about monster guts, combing bits out of his hair with his fingers, without complaint. At least, not about the guts.

Geralt’s attire for the evening is from a shop. The shirt is too big in the front, probably intended for a portly lordling, rather than a muscled warrior. And the trousers are a little too loose, at least, compared to how tight he usually wears them.

“Fuck,” says Jaskier.

His thoughts, exactly.

“Well, at least the jacket fits, just don't take it off." He reaches up to button the shirt all the way－it’s a formal event, after all－looking up at Geralt. "It's not my best work. But you could pull off wearing anything. Silk or selkiemore."

“Not this,” says Geralt.

His slow heartbeat picks up a bit when the bard shoves him, like he used to do. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

Jaskier smells _terrified_. It’s the witcher who gets recognized as they arrive at the banquet, while not a single noble appears to give a rat’s ass about the bard’s arrival. Once he puts his lute down, rather than loudly working the room－like he does in taverns, amongst common folk－he’s just standing in the corner, so quiet.

It’s almost a relief to see that short, fat lordling take Jaskier by the elbow. The witcher has no doubts that had he been some lowly farmer, the bard probably could’ve taken him in a fight. But this man could have them both hanged.

So Geralt uses his words. “It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward－”

Jaskier looks a little wounded at that. But it feels good. So he adds even more insult to injury, with the bit about the ox. And now, hopefully, the lordling will report back to his friends about the bard being a eunuch, and not only will no one other lord try and crowd Jaskier against a wall, but neither will any ladies or lord’s sons.

“Oh, _thank_ you, thank _so_ you much－”

Geralt can’t help but smirk a bit. Maybe it’s going to be a better evening than he’d thought.

Then the Queen arrives, and they’re both put to work－although Geralt really didn’t expect to be courted for a job by Her Majesty herself.

“I’m helping the idiot free of his coin,” he says, as if he’s being paid with anything other than getting to hear that wonderful singing voice again.

Jaskier looks so much more himself, now that he’s the righful center of attention, belting his heart out. Peacocking, indeed. Fuck off, your Majesty.

And then… the night really gets interesting, with the entrance of Lord Urcheon. At least fighting is easier than having to talk to people.

* * *

After the chaos－literally－the banquet turns into a wedding.

Something about watching the princess cradle the face of the monstrous knight－kissing him, unafraid－tightens the witcher’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Especially when Jaskier is right beside him, smelling of salt as he cries happy wedding tears, with his arms around someone else.

Who the fuck is the lady?

As soon as the vows are done, and the monster turns back into a human, and Geralt is fairly certain the queen isn't about to try another stabbing, he's out of there. Or he tries to be.

For some reason, he puts his farewell in the weirdest possible euphenism he could’ve chosen. “Don’t grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn.”

But then Duny delays his exit. Jaskier's eyes are on him, as he's put on the spot about repayment. But he wants nothing. Aside from getting the fuck out of there. No wonder he blurts out the fucking Law of Surprise.

And now, thanks to Jaskier, he has a _child_. Or he will.

“... _Fuck_.”

And then, the damn bard doesn’t even bother chasing him down, attempt to apologize for dragging him here.

It would’ve been comforting to at least hear what he had to say about it. For them to travel in each other’s company, like they used to do, turn their backs on destiny together.

But the witcher leaves alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And commenting, especially... I might wanna try and overcome my social anxiety enough to actually reply, you all are too funny and sweet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the last chapter, all you really need to know is that Geralt and Jaskier had more of a cold reunion than he'd hoped, and the banquet at Cintra didn't improve much... particularly because Jaskier met a certain lady.

The lady was the Countess de Stael.

Last the witcher heard, the bard is still warming her royal bed. If it gets serious, which he's heard rumor about－not that he's seeking out the gossip, in particular－she might even make a consort of him. Keep him dressed in finery and drinking Touissant Red for the rest of his days.

Geralt wonders if he'll still sing. Not for coin, but just to annoy.

He's two towns away when someone bangs on his tavern door in the middle of the fucking night. It's a herald, already sweaty from riding, judging from the smell of horse, but fear spikes sour as he catches sight of the witcher in the doorway.

"I bear an urgent summons from the Countess de Stael."

Fuck.

Geralt is not often impressed with the excess of the rich. All that finery means nothing to him, when he's often been privy to the sins behind their gain. Many monsters have been born from those indiscretions. And they pay him to clean up the mess.

But the size of her estate is not lost on him. All the plush tapestries and rugs, gilded furniture, exotic bouquets of flowers. And yet, even with all the overwhelmingly sweet smells that nearly choke him a bit, too much for his witcher senses, he can smell Jaskier.

His slow heartbeat speeds up, expecting the bard around any corner. But he’s nowhere to be seen.

The Countess is statuesque, beautiful in a soft and full, aristocratic way. She puts aside a book of poetry as the witcher is escorted into her study.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she says, not smiling. “Julian’s told much about you.”

He tries not to let his hands turn into fists. “Hmm.”

But, thankfully, she doesn’t get into small talk. Her face twitches a bit, clearly distressed, in spite of her attempted aloofness. She doesn’t hesitate to pull a small parcel from her bosom and hand it to him.

It’s too spoiled by her perfume for him to get a good whiff. But when he opens the letter, he doesn’t need smell to recognize the lock of hair.

Now he does let his hands fist, and shake, as he reads the poorly scribed letter. It’s a demand for ransom.

* * *

It’s not hard to find the bandits. He’s almost as skilled at following the trail of humans as he is at tracking monsters. He often needs to start on a human’s path, where they were last seen, when they go missing. Usually, there’s more blood, sometimes teeth or scales or feathers. This time, there’s mostly just prints, human and horse, ashes of campfire, and, because the bard isn’t always a fool, there’s buttons. Plenty of shiny buttons.

He circles the camp at dusk, watching from afar with his keen eyes, and _smelling_ , downwind. Jaskier’s perfume is too delicate to carry, but there’s no mistaking that brightly colored cloth in the distance, lit by campfire. No bandit dresses like that.

But he does smell roast pig and beer. After dinner, they’ll be full and slow, maybe even tipsy. There’s no sneaking in－he just walks, swords out, eyes black.

Just as the men take notice, screaming for each other, scrambling for weapons, he catches sight of Jaskier. Laying on his side, hands bound, mouth gagged, tear streaks through the dirt on his face. Those blue eyes widen, a muffled cry in his throat. The witcher’s rage goes to his blood like a potion.

But Jaskier can’t watch him butcher anyone. So Geralt sticks to bashing with the back of his sword, slicing calves and forearms, punching and kicking, using Aard, and, in one desperate moment, Igni.

And then－once he’s sure all the men are down, and not getting up, not _ever_ coming back to try laying hands on the bard again－he goes to his knees before Jaskier. Cuts his bonds, looses his gag.

“Geralt…”

Jaskier’s hands clutch feebly at his shoulders. He’s weak, probably dehydrated, exhausted from the rush and then drop of adrenaline. His wrists are rope-burned, hands trembling. But the witcher doesn’t smell any blood.

“I’ve got you,” he says. _Songbird_ , he doesn’t say.

They must haste, in case any of the men recover enough to follow them. So he scoops the bard up in his arms.

Jaskier clutches frantically at his chest. “Lute,” he says, his voice hoarse. “My lute…”

“Where is it?”

It’s still packed onto one of the bandit’s mules. From the looks of it, unharmed, probably intended for sale. He has to put the bard down for a moment so he can free the lute and sling it on his back. Then he picks up Jaskier again and carries him the safe distance that he left Roach.

Jaskier makes a confused noise as he’s helped onto his horse, for the first time.

* * *

They ride for hours at full speed, leaving the wounded kidnappers long behind. Geralt will make it up to Roach when they get back into town. All the apples and sugar she wants.

Jaskier is asleep at his back. He wakes around dawn, once they’ve slowed down, and the witcher jumps down to walk, sparing Roach the extra weight.

“Fancy seeing you again, witcher.”

His voice is still hoarse, and a bit wobbly, as if he’s drunk, rather than just exhausted.

Geralt hands him a waterskin. It only quiets the bard for a moment. After being gagged for what must’ve been days, he has to make up for all the talking he’d missed out on.

“I knew you’d come for me,” says Jaskier. “Well, I didn’t _know_ , but I really, really, really hoped, in my wildest dreams, just _please_ , come save me again like you always do.”

“What about the Countess?”

Jaskier heaves a sigh. “Why would she pay a single, measly coin? She _left_ me. Or, rather, she threw me out.”

Geralt’s slow heart quickens. He almost doesn’t want to admit the truth.

“She paid me quite a lot more.”

But not as much as the ransom had demanded. It had been cheaper to hire a witcher. In fact, she didn’t even need to pay him. He hadn’t taken the coin for the bard’s rescue. Rather, for having to return him to her.

Jaskier’s scent sharpens with confusion. He’s sputtering, heartbeat picking up.

Geralt almost doesn’t want to ask. But once he starts, he can’t stop. He hasn’t talked much lately, either.

“What did you do to piss her off? Tumble with one of her servants? Sleep with her cousin?”

“She doesn’t mind that,” says Jaskier, thoughtfully. “Well, cousins are probably off-limits, but… We’re like-minded, in that regard. I don’t know if I could settle down with anyone who’s not.”

Geralt wonders if it wouldn’t be so bad, watching the bard flirt, leave the night, knowing he’d come back. Well, before Touissant, he always did.

”So what did it?”

Jaskier hesitates. “Hard to say, it could’ve been any number of things.”

That’s new. The witcher suspects he does actually know the cause, but doesn’t want to say, for once.

“Well, I suppose I have nowhere else to go,” says Jaskier. “Those bastards took what little coin I had.”

In his haste, the witcher hadn’t even thought to search the camp for anything valuable. He’d taken their only real treasure.

“Which wasn’t much,” admits Jaskier. “I haven’t been working.”

Just as Geralt had imagined. The Countess kept the bard in the lap of luxury. Hers, to be exact.

“You may as well grovel,” says Geralt.

“Really? Well, don’t mind if I do! Geralt, my old friend, dear White Wolf, whom I named, please, let me share your next room. Or spare me a little space in your bedroll. I’m at your mercy.”

He hadn’t even considered that possibility. But, rather than get his hopes up, he shoots them down. “I meant to the Countess.”

“...Oh.”

Jaskier almost sounds disappointed. But he shouldn’t.

It doesn’t matter whether or not Jaskier wants to see the Countess. Geralt’s got to bring him back, prove he’s safe. And deal with the second half of the payment he doesn’t really want.

* * *

“ _Julian_!”

The stately demeanor of the Countess melts away when she sees him. She _coos_ , kissing all over his dirty face. Apparently, he’s been forgiven, for whatever had gotten between them.

Geralt leaves the room, letting them have their reunion. He would simply take off, if it weren’t for the matter of the second half of his payment. So he paces the echoing stone of the entrance.

When the Countess comes to him, she’s staid again, clutching a heavy purse.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says.

The witcher not only refuses the purse, but he produces the first one she’d given, handing it over.

“I can’t take this,” he says. “It wasn’t a job.”

She doesn’t take the money back. Her eyes are keen, but not unkind. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, she closes her hand over his own. “You’d do well to keep it. He’s expensive. I want you taking the best care of him.”

Geralt tilts his head at her. Her perfume is too heavy for a good read. Though her heart races a little. “He’s here to stay.”

Her smile is bittersweet. “If only.”

Now his own slow heart is gaining.

“I knew before,” she says. “He sang a lot about you. Far more than he sung about me.”

“I’ve more tales to tell.”

She shakes her head. “Not those kinds of songs.”

Geralt's heartbeat is so fast, it's nearly human.

* * *

Geralt only takes enough from the purse to cover a few nights at the next inn, including dinner, and some wine. And a bushel of apples for Roach.

Jaskier is by his side, strangely quiet, maybe reminiscing as they make their way out of the vast estate. He picks flowers along the way, sniffing them, humming a bit.

"So," says Jaskier. "Was that a yes on the bed or bedroll?"

“Why not stay, sleep on one of her many feather beds?"

Jaskier shrugs. “Eh, I’ve been cooped up for too long. Did you think I chose a bard’s life just so I could sit around under a roof?”

Geralt smiles. He’s never thought it right to cage a songbird.

“But haven’t you gotten a taste for feather beds and Toussaint Red?”

“Well, it’s rather funny, but feather beds aren’t so soft as a simple straw mattress after a month of sleeping on the ground.”

“What about the Red?”

“Oh, it’s incomparable, nothing like it in the world－but, I must admit, tavern swill after weeks of nothing but water is a decent second.”

Geralt nearly holds his breath. “And the Countess?”

“I do love her.” The witcher’s chest tightens. “But…”

It nearly hurts his throat to repeat the words. “Torches like candles?”

Jaskier’s scent goes bitter. “...Right.”

* * *

Geralt’s bedroll isn’t meant for two. So he gets them a room. Just like old times, first baths, then dinner.

Jaskier plays, for what must be the first time in a long time, judging from the way he glows, coming back into his own. His voice still a little husky, but that makes his performance all the more affecting.

Once again, he sings to Geralt. One of those kinds of songs.

That makes it easy to kiss him first. For once, he doesn't have to worry that crowding Jaskier against the wall, one hand on his hip and the other on his neck, will scare him. On the contrary. He missed the way that dear heart quickens, his sweet scent rising even sweeter.

Jaskier deepens the kiss, clutching at his chest. But then he breaks away.

"Geralt... I lied.”

His slow heart feels like it’s stopped cold.

“It's not a candle,” says Jaskier, brushing his fingers over his jaw. “It's a blaze, and it's never going out. I'm still in love with you."

He should never have fallen for a poet. Those words are so lovely. And while the witcher often distrusts words, that thundering heart is no lie. But any words he could say in return would be too rough, unworthy. He’s struck dumb.

Jaskier caresses his cheek anyway. "I don't mind if you can't say it back. You show it in other ways. Rescuing me over and over, letting me steal your drinks, putting me on Roach－"

Geralt shows it with another kiss. Jaskier yelps, and then laughs, as he’s lifted right up and carried the rest of the way.

“Oh, my wolf…”

He smells amazingly sweet. More than usual, beneath the dandelions and lust. The witcher used to think it must've simply been his natural scent, but now it's overwhelming, like the bottle's been uncorked.

It's a feeling. Geralt hadn't smelled it enough to put a name to it before.

It’s love. He’s always smelled like _love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking around for this one-shot that turned into an epic Getting Together fic! I'm sure you noticed I sneakily extended the chapter count, these boys need just a little more time to get their shit together. Strap in, it ain't over yet...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again dear readers! I haven't quite conquered my social anxiety enough to reply to comments (gosh, one day, I hope) but just know that each and every one warms my heart and stokes my inspiration.
> 
> I am for some reason trying to write between the lines of canon, so... blame those writers and their silly timeline, not me.

For the first time, the witcher doesn't worry about waking up alone. Night after night, morning after morning. His bard is always there, on his chest, or curled up at his back, with his arms around him.

They have coin enough for one more night at the inn, before they have to move on, go back to work. So they have to make it count.

Geralt had paid the tavern keeper extra coin not to disturb them, no matter how much noise they make. And when another guest had tried banging on their door in the middle of the night, being met by a stark naked witcher holding a sword had made him think twice about complaining.

So his songbird can be as loud as he pleases.

Jaskier's scent goes to his head sweet as wine. He's naked and writhing beneath him, bruises on his hips, bite marks along his neck and collarbone, both on his inner thighs. And he'd asked for them. Trusted his witcher not to hurt him.

Geralt is probably bruising over bruises as he holds down those helplessly bucking hips, taking Jaskier’s cock down his throat. Jaskier cries out, pulling at his hair, and the witcher’s growl is almost more of a purr.

But then Jaskier flinches back at the brush of spit-slick fingers between his cheeks, trying to press inside.

"I can't," says Jaskier. "Fuck, I wish I could, but you've finally broken me. You defeated the beast."

Geralt smiles. "Are you going to put it in a song?"

"You know what, if you let me, I'd take that blow to my pride."

Geralt pulls himself up and goes to kiss him, before he can start singing. It's not his voice that's the problem, it's the words. They're so embarrassing. And totally inaccurate.

Jaskier rolls him over, onto his back, laying between his legs, for a change, rather than straddling him. There’s a glint in those blue eyes that the witcher recognizes as inspiration.

"Geralt," he says, sweetly, already almost pleading, before even asking for anything. "Have you ever... been had?"

Geralt nearly stiffens in surprise. It's almost not even a question, because surely, in all his long years, the answer would be yes. But it's not. Whenever he lays with someone, more often than not a professional, with his size and stature－not to mention being a witcher－there's never any question of who's going to be on top.

And even if he had been curious, who could he have trusted to indulge him? Braving that kind of vulnerability took trust. And he'd never trusted anyone.

Not until now.

"Really?" asks Jaskier, taking his answer from the witcher's silence. "Never?"

Geralt growls defensively.

Jaskier doesn't even bat an eye. He tucks some stray white strands behind Geralt's ear. "I suppose nobody's been foolhardy enough to try and mount a witcher."

"Except for you?" asks Geralt.

Jaskier bites his lip. Then he leans forward, pressing their brows together. The witcher closes his eyes, allowing the tension to ease back out of his limbs, letting the warm body pressing down on him melt him into the sheets.

"Dearheart,” says Jaskier. “You take such good care of me. Let me dote on you, for a change. You deserve it."

"Jaskier," says Geralt, opening his eyes.

“Yes, my wolf?”

It’s not easy to say. But it’s what his bard wants to hear.

" _Please_."

Jaskier begins to actually tremble with excitement. “Oh, this is _happening_.”

He kisses him and then goes for the chamomile oil. But he takes his time, easing Geralt’s nerves with the warm familiarity of his mouth around his cock, nearly taking his mind off of the very unfamiliar reach of a slick finger teasing his entrance.

And then it’s _inside_ him, and now he actually understands what that means. Nobody’s ever dared _enter_ him before. Then that finger crooks, just so, and he can’t help but buck his hips, shot through with such sweet shock, nerves he didn’t even know he had－couldn’t have known, without someone else to show him, teach him the secrets of his own body－

Jaskier pulls off of his cock to speak. “You’re doing so well, my love－”

Geralt nearly laughs. “What, I haven’t kicked you across the room?”

“Is that what you did to everyone else who’s tried this?”

Any retort he could’ve had is replaced with a gasp as a second finger enters. An unfamiliar sound punches out of his chest.

“Oh, my _gods_ ,” says Jaskier. “There’s a good boy－”

Those words nearly wrack his body just as hard as those two fingers in the right spot, heat pooling in so many places.

Good thing he paid the tavern keep extra. He didn’t know he could be so loud, himself.

Another finger, and this time, he does nearly kick Jaskier off the bed.

“You look so gorgeous like this,” says Jaskier. “Who knew I could best a witcher one-handed－not even a whole hand－”

Geralt grabs him and pulls him down for a kiss.

“If you don’t hurry up and fuck me,” says Geralt, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Jaskier laughs. “Oh, I’m so scared.”

But he does grab the oil and slick himself up. And then he pauses, taking a moment to stare down at the witcher laid out with open legs before him. Those blue eyes widen, perhaps recognizing the rare sight, trying to memorize it.

“You’d better not be composing,” says Geralt.

“Uh,” says Jaskier, guilty, and apparently at a loss for words. But then he leans down and kisses him, as if for courage. And then he settles for something simple, rather than poetry.

“I love you,” says Jaskier, and it’s still so strange to the witcher’s ears. So dangerous. After all, here he is, with his guard down, naked and worked open, and still wanting.

Jaskier lines up his cock and begins to press inside. Geralt gasps, his head falling back.

He still hadn’t known what _inside_ really meant. Not until now, there’s so much of it. So much of his own self unexplored, until now. He’s glad that it’s Jaskier to brave his depths, that he gets to see the wonder on that sweet face. It almost doesn’t even hurt to be stretched and filled.

" _Jask_ －"

And then Jaskier can't hold back any longer, giving in to a short, quick thrust. Geralt's mouth falls open.

"Geralt, oh _fuck_ , if you keep making sounds like that, I can't－" He slows, but doesn't stop. "Quick, just－tell me about kikimoras... mating, or something－"

Geralt is almost too overwhelmed, those hips moving so frantic one moment and tortuously slow the next. His mouth is occupied with other sounds. And yet... he could answer _that_ in his sleep. "The females... bite the heads off the males... after."

Jaskier stills for a moment to laugh into his shoulder. "Right, yeah, good, I'm good now. Just don't do that to me."

"No promises."

Geralt lifts his hips. Jaskier obliges, sinking deeper, apparently regaining his composure enough to steady his rhythm. Trying to look smooth, as if he hadn't almost lost it just from hearing his witcher scream. He's lucky he's so lovely, with a good cock－

"How does it feel?" asks Jaskier. "Getting to lay back and let me take care of you?"

It's still so hard to talk. He hardly has enough breath. "I could get used to this."

It’s strange not to have to put his back into it, just sinking into the sheets and enjoying himself, while his bard pants and sweats, flushed and pretty with his hair sticking to his brow. Their bodies are slick, so warm, inside and out, he’s burning up. And the pressure is building.

He can’t last much longer, especially because Jaskier doesn’t forget about his cock. Always so attentive, helping him in and out of his armor, brushing his hair, and now, this－why did it take him so long－

“Songbird－”

Jaskier coaxes him over the edge, and then follows soon after, with that sweet, breathy sound, spilling inside Geralt. So many firsts. And at his age.

Geralt grunts in protest when Jaskier pulls out, leaving him strangely empty. He could’ve stayed like that forever. But it’s only so Jaskier can reach him for a kiss, so it’s a worthy sacrifice.

Jaskier collapses in his chest, and, for a moment, he's quiet enough for the witcher to suspect he dropped right off, spent and warm. He reaches up to run a hand through his bard's hair, taking a moment to just marvel.

Where had this foolhardy creature come from? Brave and stupid enough to look at a witcher and think he could take him. And then he’d _done_ it. A bold little bird perching fearlessly on a wolf.

“What are you thinking?” asks Jaskier.

“Just… poetry.”

“My dear, have I got you composing?”

“It’s not nearly as refined as yours.”

“I should hope so, do you think what I do it easy? You’re about as good with words as I am with swords, I should think.”

Geralt smirks. “You're good with my sword.”

“All these years of waiting for you to speak up more, and this is what I get. How did I fall for someone with such a boorish sense of humor? Sometimes I have to look at your arms, or your ass, just to remind myself why I’m still here. I take it back, I'm actually not bad with a sword, _real_ ones, I had to study back in－”

He’s really gotten used to falling asleep to that voice. If his songbird minds, he never mentions it in the morning.

“Jaskier?” he says, before he drifts off.

“Hmm?”

But when he opens his eyes, meets those blue ones, staring at him hopefully－

Fuck. Even after all this, he’s not ready. He can hardly even permit the words to float in his mind, let alone sit on his tongue.

So he simply says, “Thank you.”

Jaskier smiles into his skin. “At least you’ve learned to say _that_.”

* * *

Jaskier is chatty over breakfast, as usual. But if any of the other guests eating in the tavern recognize their voices from the screaming through the walls, they’re wise enough not to mention it, let alone look twice at the witcher glaring at them over his food. Even if he’s probably a little less intimidating with a beaming bard leaning into him, snatching from his plate, and, if anybody looked down, curling a foot around his calf under the table.

They are definitely not going to be missed around here. As much as it hurts to have to leave a proper bed behind, it’s been a long time since Geralt has been excited to pack up for the road. His stomach is light. And a little… unsettled. But it’s probably nothing.

Roach knickers in greeting when they arrive at the stable.

“So, um,” says Jaskier. “Am I… still walking?”

“For now.”

Jaskier’s face falls a bit.

“It’s not good for her back to carry two for long,” says Geralt. “Let’s wait till our feet need it.”

That brightens his bard’s face up again.

Geralt smirks, as he leads Roach on, and they fall in step down the road. “Besides, walking is better. After all the riding we’ve done.”

Jaskier bites his lip. “Are you feeling it?”

“Hmm,” he says, in admission.

"So where are we headed?"

"North,” says Geralt.

"With the weather turning? Brr!” Jaskier clutches himself, like he’s already cold. “Why don't we head south? Run from the season change while we can."

"Winter brings darkness, and darkness brings monsters.”

"And absolutely _miserable_ camping," whines Jaskier.

"That's the life,” he says, and in spite of his tentative smile, as he looks at his bard, he can’t help but ask. “Sure you won’t miss the feather beds?”

“Not as much as I missed you.”

Jaskier reaches out for his arm, halting his stride. This is somewhat new. They usually wait until they’re settled, camping or rooming, before drawing close. But he takes Geralt’s face in his hands and kisses him, right there in the middle of the road.

Roach must think they’re taking a break, because she helps herself to some flowers on the side of the road.

Jasker pulls back, looking up into his face. His scent is heady, that sweetness going to the witcher’s head like wine.

“Geralt… when are we going to go back to Cintra? For the child?”

The witcher nearly steps back in alarm. But the bard doesn’t seem to notice, babbling on.

“I don’t blame you if you wait till it’s weaned and walking and all that. They’re much easier, not to mention more _fun_ , after they’re talking. Once you can reason with them. Or just sing at them. Or tell them a curse word. Have I ever mentioned I’m _really_ good with children－”

" _Jaskier_ ," says Geralt.

Jaskier blinks at him in surprise.

Geralt growls, and means it. "Don't even think about it."

He gets Roach’s attention, reining her back onto the path, and keeps walking. Fast.

"But we could pull it off," says Jaskier, stumbling after him. "I wouldn't mind staying behind from hunts, with the babe. You'll just have to share all the details, _better_ than you do now, thank you. And then the two of you could go to bed early while I play, unless... Well, actually, the little lamb would probably love it, and think of the extra coin we could earn with a fat little bairn on your knee, we could make enough for an extra mouth easy－!"

Each and every word from his bard’s mouth is like a blade, driving deeper and deeper into his heart. Damn that sweet scent.

He _snarls_. "I said _drop it_."

How quickly that sweetness spoils, going bitter. That heartbeat startles like a rabbit.

Jaskier falls behind. "You weren't planning on raising the child without me?"

Geralt doesn’t turn back to look at him as he says, "I'm not planning _anything_ to do with it."

"But it's yours," says Jaskier. He runs to catch up, get ahead of the witcher, enough to catch a glimpse of his face. "You can't just turn your back on destiny."

“Fuck destiny," says Geralt. "And fuck the druid. No calamity is going to reign down because I didn’t tear a child from its mother.”

“What druid?”

“Mousesack.”

Jaskier’s scent goes ever so slightly sour. “Is that what he said? _Calamity_? Geralt, you saw what happened at the banquet－”

" _Shut up_."

Jaskier finally lurches in front of him, halting his path, with hands reaching out but not quite touching his chest. Geralt can’t look anywhere else but those wide blue eyes.

"The child doesn't have to be yours," says Jaskier. "It could be _ours_."

Geralt tears his eyes away. He’d been such a fool. Acting like a lovesick child, as if he could afford such notions. He's a witcher. And the bard is only human, with all their fragile, mortal needs. Not just a roof over his head and a warm bed, but a cradle beside it.

His job is to keep those cradles from being empty in the morning, kill the things that snatch from them. He's not meant to have one of his own.

“This is no life for a child,” said Geralt. “And it’s no life for you.”

Jaskier's scent is unbearable, his heart like a thunderstorm. "Geralt of Rivia, what are you saying?"

"If you're hoping for a happy ending, you'd better look elsewhere. We are not going to get married, settle down, and have a family. I work alone. I travel alone. And I will die alone.”

Geralt tastes salt in the back of his throat. Jaskier can't hold back his tears.

"No, no, _no_ ," says Jaskier. "You can't do this to me again."

"I should never have let you follow me," says Geralt. His throat goes tight, eyes stinging. "If we carry on like this, I'm going to bury you."

Then again, he hadn't even gotten to bury Renfri.

"But you're the White Wolf," says Jaskier. "You always save me. You'll never be too slow, and they'll never be too many－"

Geralt mounts Roach. "Move along, bard."

Jaskier stares up at him, his sweet voice swollen. “You know, for someone who doesn’t even believe in destiny, you certainly seem resigned to yours.”

After all this time, all the escapes he could’ve made, but didn’t, Geralt finally nudges Roach into a run. Too fast for the bard to possibly catch up.

Jaskier calls after him.

“See you around, witcher.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear readers, this is it. Thank you for coming on this unexpected journey with me! I'm so grateful to each and every one of you, especially those who've commented (even though I didn't respond cause I'm a bundle of anxiety held together by pajamas). I'm not crying, you're crying.

Geralt can’t sleep. Every time he does, he hears singing in his dreams. And then he can’t fall asleep at all, because he doesn’t want to dream of the singing.

* * *

_"Did you sing to her before she left?"_

_"I did, actually, and－wait, what are you_ implying _?"_

* * *

It happens at last. Exactly as the witcher knew it would, as he'd feared, all this time. His songbird bleeds from his sweet mouth, his lovely throat swelling and ruined, because of him.

He's going to lose Jaskier. And it will be his fault.

But then Geralt doesn't lose him. His songbird's throat calms to its normal size, his mouth free of blood, and breathing softly. He looks as lovely as ever, fast asleep on much finer sheets than they ever used to enjoy, still smelling of blood, but also dandelions.

Geralt wants nothing more but to just lay down next to him, and finally rest. He's ready to hear the singing again, and take back what he said, admit that it's _wonderful_. But he still has to contend with this cunning mage, who suddenly smells... so _good_...

"That scent－lilac and－"

* * *

Geralt leaves the sorceress when he wakes. She seems like the type that would rather have him gone, anyway. Before she regrets what they did, in the heat of the moment, maybe turns him into something.

He certainly regrets it. As much as he'd felt drawn to her－not her beauty, but her brittleness, not unlike his own－it had probably just been sex magic still at work in that room, getting into his head with the key of lilac and gooseberries. Maybe it had only lowered his inhibitions, made him act on real feelings rather than repress, but the timing had been shit. He has to get back to his bard.

Roach is where he left her in the mayor's very fine stables. But where is Jaskier?

Hopefully he hadn't slept so long that the bard had moved along, wherever he intended to go after being kicked out, again, by the Countess de Stael.

His instinct to head back to Chireadan's tent is on point. There's laughter coming from inside. He can’t exactly knock, so he simply pushes inside.

"Geralt!" says Jaskier.

He sounds slightly sloshed. And they both smell like it. Cheap Elvish moonshine.

Chireadan is cleaned up and out of his armor and boots, wearing a loose shirt.

"Hello again, sir witcher," he slurs. "How's Yennefer?"

Jaskier hits the elf on the shoulder, and the pair burst into drunken giggles.

Under the overwhelming sting of moonshine, there's a musky note of sex. And it's not only coming from Geralt. Those two are awfully friendly, leaning into each other as they laugh...

Ah, fuck. _Jaskier_.

Well. He can't really blame him for going elsewhere when he'd been occupied himself. But this is not happening again. Not until they've had a _talk_.

"Chireadan," says Geralt, with a nod.

And then he looks at Jaskier, half tempted to just grab him by the scruff of his shirt and haul him away. That hadn't been all bad, aside from the blood and wheezing. He'd definitely been thinking about handling his bard like that again, once he'd recovered.

But it had been too long. He couldn't assume, outside of life or death, that his touch would be welcome again.

So he asks, simply, "Songbird?"

Jaskier seems to instantly sober. So does Chireadan, whose scent spikes nervously, staring at the witcher with realization dawning. Both heartbeats are brisk.

"Right, um," says Jaskier, stumbling to his feet. 'Lovely to meet you, Chireadan. Thank you so much for all your, uh, help. But we really must be going. Good luck with your mad mage, I hope it works out."

“Same to you,” says Chireadan.

They step outside of the tent.

Jaskier looks hopefully up at Geralt. But then his nose wrinkles.

"I hate gooseberries," he says. "And lilacs are for grandmothers."

* * *

As always, another inn, another bath. Geralt washes off the enchanted perfume.

But it won't be the last they’ll see of Yennefer. For better or worse. She hadn't feared him. Not in the slightest. Maybe the first woman he'd met who hadn't smelled at least nervous, aside from a certain princess. And later, a queen. But after the Law of Surprise, even Calanthe had come around on that.

He probably could've worded his wish better, in the heat of the moment. But he'd had the feeling that woman, writhing on the floor, eyes red, voice monstrous, just needed someone to see her. Just as Jaskier had seen him. Unafraid to kiss him, even with black eyes, too-sharp teeth.

His bard is strangely quiet, sitting on the bed behind him. He no longer smells of sulfur, the stink of cursed magic. But he does smell of blood, and booze, and sex. They both have other people they need to wash off.

"Jaskier."

"Hmm?" says Jaskier.

That’s his line. But it's good not to hear that damn wheeze anymore.

Geralt leans back in the water, letting his fingers make little waves. "Join me?"

Jaskier looks a bit shy as he takes off his shirt and lets his pants fall, maybe unsure whether he should make a show of it or not. Or if it's just a friendly gesture, not that kind of bath. When he steps into the tub, he keeps to his side, looking up over his folded knees, their feet barely brushing.

"May I?" asks Geralt. He reaches out.

Jaskier tips his head back, baring his throat for him. Back to normal, no longer swollen and purple, but pale, and smooth under his fingers. His pulse races under it, loud in the witcher's ears.

"Can you sing?"

The corners of his bard’s mouth tug a bit, maybe mischievous. But he keeps his eyes downcast as he sings, perhaps afraid to look.

_“Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw_

_Lay not your breast against him, or lips to ease his roar_

_For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone－”_

Geralt lunges forward and shuts him up with a kiss. Jaskier doesn't flinch, laughing into his mouth as he's pulled into his lap, water splashing around them.

“You always sing nonsense,” says Geralt.

He kisses up and down that dear throat, gently, not wanting to do any more harm than he's already done.

"Don't scare me like that again.”

"Nor you,” says Jaskier.

Geralt pulls back, looking at him questioningly.

"I mean, the devil woman," says Jaskier. His hands run restlessly over the witcher’s chest. "Not that I care about you running around－not when it's usually me doing the running around－oh, um, speaking of which…I, uh..."

"I know," says Geralt.

"Well, he was heartbroken, and, so was I, a little bit. I almost thought she'd be the one to take you from me."

Geralt tilts his head. "The one?"

"Come on.” Jaskier smiles sadly. “There's always someone in the songs about heroes. A woman, usually.” He leans back, almost out of his lap, playing with the water instead. ”I'm not even supposed to be in the songs. I know I'm in over my head here. Maybe I never should've gotten my hopes up, writing myself in. I'm just a bard."

"And I'm not a hero worthy of songs." Before they get started on that debate again, he leans in to peck that mouth before the protest gets out, and then, he murmurs, "I don't give a damn who's supposed to play what role. As long as you're safe."

Jaskier gives him a doubtful pout. "You're not going to try sending me away again, are you? How many times are we going to do this?"

Geralt smiles. "You'll just come back."

It had happened. He'd nearly gotten his songbird killed. Nearly. But Jaskier is tougher than he'd thought.

"I might as well keep you in my sight, out of harm's way,” he says. “And you may as well keep sharing my bed."

Jaskier’s heartbeat soars in his chest. He takes the witcher’s face in his hands. "Geralt of Rivia－my White Wolf－what are you saying?"

There's words that Jaskier wants to hear. The kind they sing in songs. Words not meant for a witcher. But maybe he'll work up to saying them, one day.

For now, he says, "I do care about someone other than myself. It's you."

All the water around them can’t drown out the the sweetness that comes from Jaskier. Like a bottle uncorked, or stepping into a garden.

Actually, fuck it.

"I love you."

That hadn't been as hard as he'd thought.

Jaskier's eyes widen, already teary. "Oh my gods, you said it!"

"Hmm."

His tongue might just be spent for the day. Those three words might've taken up a month’s worth of expressing himself, maybe more.

But he doesn't need to speak with Jaskier kissing him desperately, very naked in his lap, his scent getting musky－

Before they get too caught up, he needs to muster the words to say one more thing. As much as he wishes they need not worry. But if he cares about Jaskier, and wants to keep him safe, he owes him one last warning. One last chance to scare him off.

So he Geralt pulls back, just enough to press their brows together.

"Jaskier," he says. It’s not fair that these words are easier to say than the other kind. "You won’t find a happy ending with me."

"Fuck the ending,” says Jaskier. “Just give me a good middle."

“You’re not scared?”

Those blue eyes are so bright. “Never.”


End file.
